


Lucy Locket Lost Her Pocket

by athousandwinds



Series: A Fine and Private Hell [1]
Category: Sweeney Todd (2007)
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-03
Updated: 2008-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandwinds/pseuds/athousandwinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucy's lost something, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucy Locket Lost Her Pocket

Ten days after they sailed Benjamin away, she found Mrs Lovett alone in the shop. She was pounding the dough with increasing ferocity, until she could've sold it as a pancake and no one the wiser for it. Every so often her hand went up to wipe at her face; sweat, Lucy thought. She was the only one who cried in this house. There were smudges of flour on her face and in her hair, making her look older than her time.

"Mrs Lovett," she said, watching her give the dough one last vicious thump, "Mrs Lovett, do you have any flypapers?"

"No, my dear," Mrs Lovett said. "Though I don't mind telling you I wish I could afford them. The problems we get with flies but there, now, summer's nearly done. That's one thing to be said for the cold coming in."

Lucy nodded slowly; her head felt like it might topple off at any moment, heavy and sore. The fresh, excruciating pain of loss was beginning to numb, this morning, in the same way that an amputated limb might settle to a dull, miserable ache. With the deadening of her senses came belief, consciousness that this was not some mistake, that this was her life now.

Mrs Lovett was looking at her. Lucy folded her hands in front of her stomach there was nothing to hope for there, nothing alive inside her and looked back. A sudden expression passed over Mrs Lovett's face, almost too fleeting to grasp. A dark, regretful satisfaction, perhaps, sorry that Lucy was like this and pleased that she'd seen it.

"Oh, no, you don't, my dear," she said. "There's better ways if you want to do that, and I won't lift a finger to help you to them. You should be ashamed of yourself, going on like that."

"Going on like what," Lucy said, but her heart wasn't in it. Her heart wasn't in anything but Benjamin, now, and he didn't know it. He wasn't there for her to tell him.

"Ashamed," Mrs Lovett reiterated, dusting off her hands vigorously. "You with a babby to look after, you can't be messing round and soaking flypapers for the arsenic. Go on, now, and we'll not speak of it. I'll make up a bottle for the poor little thing and you give her a cuddle and we'll put her down for a nap. Go on."

She flapped Lucy out of the shop and Lucy mounted the stairs to their room, her room, with leaden footsteps. A nap for Johanna. Lucy slept like a baby herself, every night waking up and hungering for something she was bereft of, hankering after love any way she could get it. Mrs Lovett had been worried about her, behind all that vindication, and Lucy clutched it close like Johanna with her blanket.

Johanna was gurgling in her cot, cheerful with childish oblivion, and so Lucy let her be. The skies were as clear as any day in London, the smog dimming and darkening the brilliant sunshine one saw when the season was dying. She wondered what skies were like in Australia, if Benjamin would see the blue and think it better than home.

She glanced down into the street and took an unthinking step backwards, out of sight. Judge Turpin was standing there, looking up at her window as if he expected to see Heaven there. In one fat, ugly hand like a claw, she thought resentfully, a horrid grasping claw he squeezed a bunch of colourful flowers. Something in Lucy's chest her entire body clenched, curled up like an animal retreating inside its den. It was cold, she thought fretfully, she should have a fire. She was shivering; she snatched her shawl from the bed and arranged it round her shoulders. It covered her throat and breasts, like a thick scarf.

Thus fortified, she ventured over to the window again, to see if he had gone. He had not, but Mrs Lovett was picking her way across the street to speak to him. Lucy could see her face slightly; it had that set look which she remembered from the day of Benjamin's trial. After a minute or two of polite conversation, he dropped the bouquet into Mrs Lovett's arms and strode away, gesturing impatiently to a nearby hackney cab. Mrs Lovett watched him go, then dumped the flowers in one of the florist's buckets. Her mouth was sour.

"Nasty things, orchids," she said later, when Lucy asked her what Judge Turpin had wanted. "Never liked them. Not natural, love."

Lucy said nothing. She was getting used to that: saying nothing. When she went to bed, she lit a candle and drew out her slim book of flowers. Benjamin had given it to her when they were courting. "A flower for a flower," he'd said, and she'd been so happy that she'd danced with him for the awkward compliment.

Orchids meant beauty. Not sympathy, or kindness, or repentance, or any of the things a friend might send in a time of sorrow. Lucy blew out the candle and lay down on the bed, trembling beneath the covers. It was too chilly a night to not huddle beneath blankets; it was too chilly a night to sleep alone. She might have slipped downstairs and asked Mrs Lovett to share with her like a sister, but Mrs Lovett had her own husband. Instead, Lucy held her nameless dread to her chest like a doll, lonely and afraid.

It was one thing to have all one's heart torn away, one's happiness destroyed and all one's hopes gone awry. It was another, still, to have all that and wonder if there was still worse to come.


End file.
